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The Trident, Monkey Tail,
& Kailash – Telemark Adventures in India
Part Two
By Bob Mazarei
Bandarpunch,
31°01’N, 78°31’E
Garhwal Himalaya, 2000
--Unknown Beauty
Lord Hanuman
(the Monkey God) holding a Himalaya in his palm.
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--ph. Bob Mazarei
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A Photograph
As sometimes happens in the exploring
game, a single photograph set the wheels in motion that led me
to go on my second expedition to the Garhwal. It was an image
of Bandarpunch West (bandarpunch means monkey tail in Hindi)
taken by India’s most prolific mountaineer and mountain
chronicler, Harish
Kapadia. The photo, seen by the great Italian telemark pioneer
Giorgio Daidola,
was all it took. Giorgio, a veteran of many fascinating telemark
expeditions to all seven continents has, like all the great early
explorers, a drive to discover little-known regions, and an experience-honed
knack to make it happen..
Population Expansion
The India Times headline
read, ‘One Billionth Born.’ I blinked and called Luca
Gasparini over. We were back in Delhi in our hotel lobby after
a flight that included several white-knuckle, gut-wrenching elevator
drops, an aborted landing and crash scenarios spinning like a
Rolodex through my mind.
“Luca, this can’t be right,”
pointing to the news story. “When I was here in ’97
the population of India was 950 million. They’ve grown by
50 mil in three years?”
“Yes Bob-a, they must have-a
better doctors now!” Luca retorted.
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A 50 mil three-year growth in a
country a third the size of America was startling to me. But
even here, we could count on soon being alone, deep among the
high peaks.
Our team sounded as if it came out
of the Renaissance, save for John Falkiner and I: Leonardo Bizzaro,
Renato Lorenzi, Thomas Soldarini, Alessio Benzoni, Giorgio Daidola,
and Luca Gasparini—six Italian gastronomists, an Aussie,
and me, the burger-lovin’ American.
Whilst John and Luca took care of
the obligatory IMF meeting, this one straightforward, I went
for a walkabout Delhi-style.
Things hadn’t changed much.
New buildings next to ramshackle
businesses, mud-bricked tin-roofed shanties within sight of plush
air-conditioned hotels, black smoke spewing tuk-tuk’s being
passed by luxurious new Mercedes’s. I walked by a new western-style
water park, the entrance guarded by security. Poor kids with
longing in their eyes gazed through gaps in the fence, while
the impoverished sifted through garbage in the next field.
Later, in this crazy metropolis
of contrasts, I browsed wood-carvings, bright trinkets and colorful
clothing in one of the many mish mash markets, bought some white
pomegranates while pondering this third world capital that is
at once beautiful and pitiful. |
Curried vegetable
Samosa's make delicious snacks.--ph. Mazarei
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Magilla Barilla
We reached the trailhead village
of Sangri at the head of the Tons River valley after two days
of driving via Rishikesh and the old British hill station of
Mussoorie (hill stations were where British officers, Indian
maharajahs, and their entourages used to holiday in the Victorian
era).
A village in
the Tons River Valley on the way to BC.--ph. Mazarei
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Temperate zone.
Tree line can go as high as 3600m (11,808ft).--ph. Mazarei
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With organization of our porters
handled by our efficient outfitter Shashank, we started the long
journey in. Hiking village to village is an ideal form of acclimatization.
These road-end journeys tend to
rise gradually over long distances so that when you finally arrive
at base camp, the acclimatization process is well under way.
An added bonus being that the mind is not focused on fatigue,
but on the local people, unexpected sights, and the incredible
vistas.
We reached BC in three long hiking
days—through the lower Tons then turning southeast towards
the Bandarpunch cirque, the area pristine after the last villages.
It was this way going to Trisul as well—both these rarely
visited areas much the same as a couple of hundred years ago,
save for glacial sizes. |
Tribal Garhwali
men are traditionally semi-nomadic herders of sheep, goats, and
buffalo. They also cultivate maize in the summer and wheat during
the winter.--ph. Mazarei
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By the time we settled on the grass
of BC and the blue barrel of Italian food was opened in our mess
tent, packed to the brim with Parmesan cheese, salami, Parma
ham, brittle peasant bread, spaghetti, and brasaola, I knew this
wouldn’t be a typical expedition that you normally read
about. These paisanos, old and new, were all about style—all
about how to be chill yet still be constantly pushing for the
objective—like yin and yang with pesto sauce.
We were perched overlooking the
imposing grandeur, our eyes zoning on features and possible routes.
And as the brasaola and Parmesan was being passed around, John
nodded to me, "yeah, expeditions with the Italians, gourmets
of the mountains." |
Looking southeast
towards the Bandarpunch peaks.--ph. Mazarei
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Over the monkey's
back. Traversing towards basecamp.--ph. Mazarei
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Large terrain,
small skiers.--ph. Mazarei
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Up and Away
A steep grass ramp led most of the
way down to the glacier avoiding the loose dirt and rock of the
massive terminal moraine. After negotiating more moraines we
started up the bone-dry glacier. Hiking over sharp rocks frozen
into the ice, winding around sun-melt ice towers, the glacier
mostly flat this low, we steadily moved up the slow motion interstate.
The surface resembled a sponge in places and melt water runnels
snaked down like veins. Up higher John came to a crevasse that
required a good-sized leap to clear.
He jumped it and said, "hey
Bob, this crevasse is a bit undercut. Be careful. Leap from back
a ways."
"Yeah John, no worries, bro."
With John already walking away,
I hit near the edge for my leap. Like in a bad Hollywood climbing
film, the edge collapsed and I was in. Fortunately my pack helped
wedge me on my backside. With one arm splayed out and the pack
wedged, I yelled to John.
He ran back, told me to "relax"
and yarded me out one-armed. John looked me in the eye with a
slight smile, and without saying another word, turned and walked
away. Collecting myself for a few moments, I looked into the
crevasse, all black, no bottom in sight. I ran after him like
a kid trying to get an autograph from Mickey Mantel.
I said, “Hey John, did I look
scared?”
“Yup.”
He one-armed me out like he’d
been in the gym snorting Creatine for a month.
Glacier debris.--ph.
Mazarei
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SpongeBob.--ph.
Mazarei
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Lorenzi, Soldarini,
Benzoni, Gasparini, Bizzaro, and Falkiner. Bandarpunch I aka Kalanag
or Black Peak, Bandarpunch II, and Bandarpunch West or White Peak,
our objective.--ph. Mazarei
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Finally, working the right edge
of the glacier, having gone through mud, snow, rock, ice, and
all combinations thereof, we arrived at the glacier juncture
that would get us onto consistent snow. After a crevasse labyrinth
we got to some clean snow and dumped our loads at 4300m (14,104ft).
We retraced our route feeling good about ourselves and found
that our Liason Officer had arrived. His name was Ben Valli.
Ben Valli? What, did he come with the Four Seasons?
Back up two days later via a more
efficient route—typical the second time up—we started
skinning and established ABC on flat snow at 4500m (14,760ft).
Continuing next morning, we stayed right of the main glacier,
still not much snow. Hidden crevasses with unstable snow bridges
became more frequent so we took skis off and walked over rocks
gaining snow ramps that led to a glacial lake at 4800m (15,744ft).
From here we had a good view of our objective. The problem was
the map.
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Earlier, on the walk into BC we
saw that some features didn’t jibe with our Swiss surveyed
map—the Garhwal Himalaya West. Strange, because one,
it’s a famous map, the de facto standard for the Garhwal;
two, the rest of the map covers well-known mountaineering objectives
where the map is spot on correct; and three, it was surveyed
by the Swiss, by god, a people obsessed with accuracy.
We had a good view of the peaks:
Bandarpunch I, also known as Kalanag or Black Peak, Bandarpunch
II, then our objective, Bandarpunch West or White Peak, all laid
out in a gigantic horseshoe cirque connected by intricate arêtes
and shoulders. Blocking our way were two peaks, the Twins. Our
map bore no resemblance to what we saw in front of our tanned
noses. We knew this area was rarely visited but this was ridiculous.
Might as well left that area blank, or at least fuzzed out the
topo lines. |
"This map
doesn't make sense."--ph. Mazarei
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Giorgio thought out right around
Unknown Peak, and John thought left through a complicated icefall.
Climbing a hill above the lake we saw that Unknown was in fact
the second summit of the Twins. Giorgio now agreed: out left.
With the decision made on how to proceed we arced tele’s
in the soft snow back to the lake. CI would have to be higher
than here at the lake, so we continued skiing the soft, slightly
sticky snow.
I was in another state, psyched
to be laying turns next to Luca and his inimitable style, his
angulation, the best I have ever seen; and Falkiner the strong-armed
guru; and especially Giorgio, the first person to telemark an
8000m peak, done in leather boots no less. The rest of the exuberant
Italian Stallions made us a well-rounded, killer team. |
The conditions
improved as we got higher.--ph. Mazarei
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We skied near a couloir bisecting
a high cliff that John spied earlier in the day that led to a
high hanging face leading to ABC. It looked straightforward except
for a rock section 3/4 of the way up. Luca, John, Renato, Thomas,
and I decided to try. Getting to the rocks was easy, the way
up and over was not. John led left, out of the couloir, through
a 7-meter section of loose shale. We eased over and I tried not
to look down, as the exposure was for real. John stemmed up and
gained the upper slope.
“John, this is way sketchy,”
I said. I knew that he was kicking himself for not bringing the
rope.
“Just focus, relax, and check
every hold. It’s not far,” John advised. |
John Falkiner.--ph.
Mazarei
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I was committed like a gambler whose
chips had been shoved to the center. I tried not to think about
the air underneath as I worked up slowly in my tele boots, slapping
suspect holds—there were a few—gripping only the good
ones. Luca talked to me as I worked the vague stem corner, the
hand and footholds mostly good, the exposure horrendous. Thomas
was scared as well but we made it up—exciting stuff in the
Himalaya, tele skis on the back, soloing rock at 4800m (15,744ft)
to go skiing.
Tension now released we styled turns
back to camp, relaxed and loose on the face, then worked some
nice chutes lower, right to the tents just as it started snowing
hard. |
Giorgio Daidola,
the first person to telemark from the summit of an 8000m peak:
main summit of Shishapangma, skinny skis, leather boots, no suppl.
oxygen.--ph. Mazarei
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Like the Photo?
John Falkiner.--ph.
Mazarei
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Tenacious D.--ph.
Mazarei
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Back up at the glacial lake depot
the next morning we split loads until the packs approached monster
status.
The clouds moved in as we linked
ourselves, four to a rope. We cruised slowly not having much
choice. Hour after hour we cruised—this type of skiing more
akin to a long distance event—snaking around crevasses,
snow bridges thankfully solid, until we came to a perfect CI
spot at 5300m (17,384ft) putting us within distance of the summit—if
we could get through the maze ahead of us.
John was up at 4am. Like a symphony
conductor, he had the three stoves purring like softly tongued
saxophones, not an easy thing with our fickle MSR’s. We
packed light and were off by 6:30 under a crisp clear sky.
It got warm fast and by the time
we got to the first problematic section I was down to my base
layer. The section was a jumble of ice towers with rotten snow
barely bridging across black holes to oblivion. |
Bob Mazarei.--ph.
Luca Gasparini
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Alessio Benzoni,
Thomas Soldarini, and Luca Gasparini.--ph. Mazarei
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Snowslope and
ice features next to Little Italy camp.--ph. Mazarei
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Room with a
view, Tolkien suite.--ph. Mazarei
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Luca lit a bidi and belayed John
as he gingerly started across, a full rope length of this wild
terrain. Like a kung fu monk trying to pass his rice paper SAT’s,
he floated across and fixed the rope. We crossed one at a time
short-slinged onto the rope, burning an hour getting through.
Harish’s photo showed a single long ice wall blocking the
lower face that we hoped would be our last difficulty, it being
late and too warm. We reached it about half its distance and
started skinning perpendicular to it, feeling like a bug next
to a curb.
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The end run right worked perfectly
leading us to a long gentle section and then the steeper slopes
to the top. Everyone took off quickly but I was content to go
a slow pace at the end of the line, conserving, just mellow gold.
We leapfrogged like this for hours: boys would stop for a breather
and a sip and I’d pass, then they’d race off again
and pass me, back and forth—the tortoise and the hare. |
Creatine?--ph.
Luca Gasparini
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The skin up the face was pure pleasure.
We wound up the tilted slopes like we were in the Alps, passing
séracs, snow perfect under skins, backyard skiing. I caught
Luca and we made the 6105m (19,060ft) summit together. Although
we had wind on the ridge, it was windless on top.
We made it quicker than we thought
we would—it was only 12:40pm—so when the others arrived
it was hugs and shutterbugs all around. |
Our summit day
couldn't have been any better.--ph. Mazarei
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The skiing in the Alps comparison
was enhanced by the fact that I wore a ball-cap and a fleece
for the descent. The Italians skied to the center of the immense
bowl while John and I stayed on the right margin, shorter turns
high and drawn out speed turns lower. All in perfect snow. Keeping
our skin tracks within view, we torqued hundreds of turns. We
were able to bypass the shark’s maw crossing by side stepping
up a high ridge atop a loaded slope of heavy snow. I was tempted
to fall line the steep pitch but cut it as the snow fell away
in sheets leaving telemark lanes of pleasure. Twenty minutes
later we were at CI sippin’ whisky. |
Summit, Bandarpunch
West, 6105m (19,060ft). So awesome.--ph. Leonardo Bizzaro
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Just like skiing
in the Alps.--ph. Giorgio Daidola
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Ripping snow.--ph.
Giorgio Daidola
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John Falkiner
and Bob Mazarei.--ph. Giorgio Daidola
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Extra Credit
It was a quick low-angled ski to
the glacial lake where we decided to set CI ver 2.0 to try and
tackle the Twins. Leo, Alessio, and Thomas bailed back to BC
to leave us to it. The wind howled all night not helping Georgio
and John’s fitful sleep. We started at 6:40am and in a bit
of a surprise, Renato and Giorgio said they would try the rear
Twin instead. Splitting into two teams made sense, for safety
and for future beta.
My skins didn’t work well on
the initial face, and in frustration I changed to crampons and
went for the power step up. John flipped over as well, but Luca
stayed with it, the going easier for him with his full-coverage
skins. The gusting winds became worse, enough to hamper balance.
We passed a shelf that led to the next steep section with the
main face exposed off right. The climb wasn't that difficult
but attention was warranted.
John working
up the serpentine ridge of Lower Twin.--ph. Mazarei
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Luca stepping
it up. Beautiful surroundings.--ph. Mazarei
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Bandarpunch
II.--ph. Mazarei
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Sea of peaks.
The Garhwal.--ph. Mazarei
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The top of the face led to a sloping
corniced ridge to the summit. Unfortunately, John had a bad throat
and was having trouble breathing. Huddling, we looked up and
agreed it would be another hour minimum of climbing, calculations
based on the visuals sifted through the Himalayan sieve.
John said, “hell with it I’m
going down.” This bummed us out.
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“Maybe we should leave the
skis here,” Luca said.
“Oh man, it would suck to get
up there and realize we could ski from the summit,” I said.
“You are right Bob-a, let’s
go.”
John turned and Luca and I started
up. Then a funny thing happened.
After 5 minutes of climbing we realized
the scale did fool us—but not in the expected way. We were
nearly halfway up the face. John was resting. We could see Renato
and Giorgio cranking up the glacier in their quest to access
Rear Twin from behind. We waved at John, hand signaling him to
come on, dude! He hesitated for a second, turned and started
climbing. |
Bandarpunch
I, also known as Kalanag or Black Peak.--ph. Mazarei
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We made quick work of the rotten
snow of the upper ridge. The last five moves involved going out
onto the firm, steep, main face then mantling back up. Comfortable
with our sexuality, we held hands (gloves on) and walked the
last few steps to the top of Lower Twin at 5815m (19,073ft).
Renato and Giorgio, meanwhile, were already on the Upper Twin
5885m (19,303ft). We watched them ski down, ripping the slopes,
our viewing angle unbelievable.
We RoChamBo’d to see who would
go first. Luca lost so he went first (wait, does that make sense?)
He skied the face we climbed up, John went right setting off
a nice sluff, no problem, and I jump tele’d the steep ego
snow to catch them up. The snow was so fun, we continued to the
cornice ending, then swung into the main bowl.
Skiing this bowl felt like the conclusion
of a skiing odyssey that started way back in Southern California,
winding its way improbably, much like the ski tracks we were
about to leave, to this faraway range in a small corner of India.
It wasn’t even that steep.
It was far more important then that. What was it then? Well,
for me, it was pretty damn moving. |
Distance distortion.--ph.
Mazarei
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Renato Lorenzi
running it out,--ph. Mazarei
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Gasparini drops
in Lower Twin.--ph. Mazarei
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It's all about
style. Luca.--ph. Mazarei
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Gasparini ski
calligraphy.--ph. Mazarei
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John went, coaxing angles from his
skis. Luca traversed out into the expanse just because he could.
I skied where I was, ptex on china plate spring snow. Fast now
towards the bottom and whoop! Angle line over the bergschrund.
Lower angle GS turns next to immense icefalls, sérac slalom
further still until once again the monster backpacks for the
ski out.
It had melted a lot since our climb
making for a long walk back to BC.
“Welcome to Heaven and Hell
Ski Tours,” John croaked. Ah yes, indeed.
Arc de Triomphe
à la neve di primavera.--ph. Mazarei
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Big-wall Gasparini.--ph.
Mazarei
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Wide open. John
Falkiner.--ph. Mazarei
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Luca powering
through.--ph. Mazarei
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Flowrider. It
was just like spring skiing back in the Alps.--ph. Mazarei
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Renato Lorenzi
and Giorgio Daidola heading home after the first descent of Upper
Twin.--ph. Mazarei
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Nicely.--ph.
Mazarei
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Bonus Round!
Luca wanted a change from
the normal trek out. He arranged for porters to take everything
down the way we came, while we would go up and over another high
pass carrying what we would need, and make our way down to Yamunotri,
one of the four holy dham, or Himalayan pilgrimage sites, next
to the Yamuna River, the second-most sacred river in India after
the Ganges. We had no love from our Swiss map. All we had was
a simple drawing and anecdotal stories, something about a cliff
and needing a rope, that sort of thing.
We followed Luca, this decision
leading to hours of bushwhacking, tired slips into water, rough
terrain, and more bushwhacking. Once clear, we realized we could
have stayed on the main trail and simply crossed when we lined
up with the high valley we had to climb. But where’s the
adventure in that?
The Bali Pass.--ph.
Mazarei
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After a rainy night next to a shepherds
cave we started towards what was called the Bali Pass—Shashank
and Ben Valli with us as well. We spent a beautiful morning walking
up this immense high valley that ended in a snow bowl at 4800m
(15,744ft). Gaining the top we looked over the edge and saw what
we didn’t expect to see: two steep snow couloirs. But which
one? Was this even the correct way? Luca was gung-ho, the rest
of us skeptical. He climbed down to check the state of the snow
and it was ice. We hadn’t even brought crampons or axes
with us. Where’s the adventure in that? Hell, I had my guitar
with me.
John remembered something about
a bergschrund we had to go over. We never went over one. But
there was one way out left, and that’s when John glimpsed
a bamboo marker. He climbed over and confirmed yes, that was
the way. A gentle bowl led down that we rock scrambled, the 10
of us splitting in groups cruising down, everything cool.
Looking off
towards Yamunotri.--ph. Mazarei
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John.--ph. Mazarei
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The way went steeper leading to
different couloirs where decisions had to be made. Picking one
and heading down, the rock bordered grass couloirs kept rolling
steeper still. Down we went, not sure, foggy and spooky. Looking
down and left we saw that these couloirs funneled then rolled
off into monstrous cliffs that faded ominously into misty darkness.
I had never seen anything like it. It was like an entrance to
the center of the Earth. This is where we lost John.
The clouds had moved in. Meanwhile
Luca, Thomas, and I climbed back out of the couloir. We climbed
and spied the others and finally saw a couple of rock cairns
left of us through the fog that now enveloped us. Luca added
a large cairn out in the open for John to see, and we worked
our way over to the edge. This was it—three cairns next
to each other.
The boys started to downclimb blind
into the fog.
“Luca, this is crazy, man.
We don’t know what’s down there,” I said.
Luca agreed. There was nothing to
do but put the tents up and wait till the next day. Just as the
tents were set, a hole in the fog opened up, only for 10 seconds,
enough for Thomas and Luca to rush over and scope the route.
We even saw the trail way at the bottom, then poof, gone again.
I’d never seen tents taken down so quickly.
We worked carefully down rocks then
steep hummocky grass, no slipping allowed, and before we knew
it we were on the trail. But where was John?
Snow was sleeting down by this time.
We sat and pondered. Time went by slowly. Then we heard a whistle
through the fog. Luca and I ran over and yelled directions to
John guiding him down to us, relieving us to no end.
--ph. Mazarei
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Pilgrims nearing
Yamunotri.--ph. Mazarei
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Street fight.--ph.
Mazarei
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Yamunotri.--ph.
Luca Gasparini
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Four hours later we turned a corner
in the trail into a sea of humanity, pilgrims from all walks
of life, hundreds, some being carried on chairs by human taxis,
the frail in wicker baskets hung on the back of one man, most
walking, up the steep trail to Yamunotri, a two day walk from
the road end.
I fell asleep in a bed inside a
large tented guesthouse. It had taken a while. This weathered
pilgrim kept grabbing his shrieking woman a couple of beds over,
working it, oblivious to everyone else in the tent. Finally he
rolled over and started buzz-sawing. Crazy old dude.
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About the author: In
1991 Bob Mazarei said goodbye to his friends here in southern
California and moved to Switzerland. Just two years later, POWDER
magazine's Steve Casimiro wrote an intro in which he referred
to Bob as "The Mayor of Verbier." We were all amazed,
but not totally surprised. Bob is a raconteur nonpareil, and
we continue to feel privaleged to share his stories with our
readers, as well as to call him an old and much appreciated friend
and tele partner. His ski resume includes more than a dozen descents
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over 17,000 feet, as well
as at least 30 climb/skis of note from around the world, including
a ski descent from the nearly 25,000 foot high summit of Muztagh
Ata in the Pamirs. Best of all, he is a blast to ski with, whether
we are harvesting backcountry corn in the spring, spinning laps
on a powder morning, or just cruising groomers on a sunny day...
getting turns with Bob has always been incredibly fun, and he
has been an inspiration to Big Tim and myself pretty much from
the time we first dropped a knee. -- Mitch |
Pure Skiing 365 Days A Year
Bob Mazarei is sponsored
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